Time Off for Good Behavior

by Lani Diane Rich

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “I’m pregnant.”

  What can I say? I’m a big fat liar sometimes.

  He smiled. “Great, good for you. First child?”

  “Yeah.” I certainly felt nauseated enough to be pregnant. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

  He smiled. “Shoot.”

  “If someone is told by a doctor that they’re gonna be dead in eight years if they don’t quit smoking, and they continue to smoke three packs a day, and ten years goes by... shouldn’t they be dead already?”

  His eyes widened and his smile faltered. “You know, smoking is really bad for the baby.”

  I shook my head. “Not me. Someone else. I mean, shouldn’t he like kick the bucket at any minute?”

  The doctor stepped away from me. Must have been an unconscious reflex. “Well, that depends on a variety of factors... I really couldn’t say.” He emptied his basket onto the counter. Three apples and a cup of yogurt. Doctors.

  “Look, I’m not going to sue you or anything. I just want to know.”

  “Miss, I really couldn’t...” He smiled at the cashier. He looked a little nervous. I have that effect on people sometimes.

  I put my hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m not pregnant. It’s my ex-husband. He’s threatening to kill me and I don’t know where he is and I’m so scared that I’m this close to falling over in a dead faint.”

  The doctor’s face softened.

  “I mean, three packs a day,” I said. “The man should be dead. Shouldn’t he be dead?”

  He put his hand on mine and gave it a quick pat.

  “Absolutely.” His eyes were sad. “The end should come any minute now.”

  Chapter Five

  Walter was sitting on the sofa when I got back, hands clasped in his lap. He looked tired. The door clicked behind me, and I stood frozen, waiting for him to speak. After a moment, he did, his eyes still on his hands.

  “George wasn’t there when I called. I know a guy, a private investigator. He’s trying to track him down.”

  There are a number of appropriate responses to someone putting his neck out for you. “Thank you,” is one. “Please don’t bother, I’ll be on my way,” is another.

  I went with, “Got my toothbrush,” waving it lamely in the air.

  Walter pushed himself up from the sofa and walked down the hallway I stood in the foyer, staring at my new toothbrush, wondering if I could run out of the house and pretend none of this had ever happened without seeming insane. I decided I could not.

  Shit.

  A minute later he returned with a towel. It was white and fluffy and perfectly folded in thirds. I hoped he had a maid, because any man who folded his towels in thirds was definitely a pipe dream.

  But I already knew that about Walter, anyway.

  “You decide what you want to do,” he said. “I would rather you called the police, but it’s your decision, and I’ll respect whatever you do. I’m sorry I pressured you about it.”

  It’s amazing, the amount of kindness that can be packed into a small gesture like holding out a towel to someone. I took it from him. He smiled and jerked his head over his shoulder. “The bathroom is the last door on the left.”

  Again, “Thank you,” would have been perfectly appropriate. Me, I came out with, “Don’t stare at my ass as I walk away.” He laughed, took me by the shoulders, and turned me around, pointing me down the hallway.

  “Go take your shower, Wanda.”

  I moved on down the hallway, hoping he was watching my ass as I walked, but too chicken to turn around and check.

  ***

  Clean and calm, I walked into the dining room to find a dinner of steak, potatoes, and salad on the table. Walter came out of the kitchen, pulling off an apron and tossing it over the back of a chair.

  “Nice spread.” I grabbed a baby carrot from the salad and munched it. “But then, it doesn’t take much to impress me.” He raised an eyebrow. Goddammit. I did it again. I reached over and grabbed his hand.

  “I mean, thank you,” I said, croaking the words out. “I’m sorry. I have some issues with sincerity.”

  He smiled that crooked smile. My heart rate kicked up a notch.

  “I sensed that,” he said. “And you’re welcome.”

  I behaved like a real, live adult through most of dinner. Mom would have been so proud. When we were done, I washed the dishes while Walter polished off his second glass of wine. When I was finished, I folded the kitchen towel—in thirds—and placed it on the counter.

  “Dinner was very nice,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He paused for a moment, watching me. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Why?”

  “Well...” He paused, looking around the kitchen, then back at me. “You’re being so polite.”

  I crossed my arms. “You’re saying I’m not usually polite?”

  He staged a sigh. “It’s amazing how quickly I can regret saying something with you...”

  “I’m polite. I’m very fucking polite.”

  He laughed and held up his hands. “You win. I take it back. I take it all back.”

  There’s a special kind of silence that happens when sexual tension is running the show. It’s full of flying glances, flickering smiles, quickening heart rates, and hands occupying themselves by smoothing out sleeves or loosening collars or diving into pockets. If there’d been a third party in the room, they would have wanted to knock us both in the head.

  Walter cleared his throat, then disengaged from The Silence by moving past me to wash and dry his wineglass, placing it carefully on the wooden rack before turning back to face me.

  “My friend hasn’t located your ex-husband, but he called while you were in the shower to tell me that the apartment in Anchorage appears to have been vacated.” He looked up, his eyes locked on mine. “That’s not a good sign.”

  I nodded in agreement. He was quiet, watching me. The air around us slowed to a full and complete stop. I couldn’t hear a sound but my own breathing.

  He reached over and touched my cheek with his fingers, and then with an almost audible crack the air started moving again and the spell was broken. Walter picked up the folded kitchen towel and refolded it, putting it back on the counter before looking at me again.

  “Wanda, I think you should stay here. Just until your ex is found. I’m not here much, I won’t be bothering you. I just...” He sighed and looked around, then back at me and smiled. “To be honest, it’s nice having someone here. I think it’s a good—temporary—solution for both of us.”

  I stared at him for a minute.

  “Wanda?”

  I held up one hand. “I’m thinking.”

  It occurred to me that I was a horrible decision maker. Look at George. Look at Shooter. Hell, in college I’d been faced with a number of useful majors and chosen liberal arts. I glanced up, and my eyes caught on Walter’s. He was wearing the most genuine expression of concern I’d ever seen. Where did this guy come from, anyway? Did he not have problems of his own? What the hell did he want with mine? Was he crazy? He must be crazy. Crazier than me? Not likely. But still...

  He was obviously just plain nuts.

  I sighed, craned my neck, stared down at the little kitchen towel folded in thirds, and before I realized it, I heard the words come out of my mouth.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  Little crinkles formed at the edges of his eyes. I wanted to touch his face, to express to him how much his help meant to me, to be sincere. Instead...

  “But if you think you’re getting any sex out of this, you’ve got another think coming, buddy.”

  He laughed. “You just can’t leave a nice moment alone, can you, Wanda?”

  I shook my head and gave him my best wiseass grin. He pulled me to him in a gentle hug, his chin resting on the top of my head. I closed my eyes and inhaled, trying to imagine that I could have this, that it wasn’t a pipe dream, that pursuing Walter could make sense. It
was a big fat lie, but my life was in the shitter and I indulged myself. So sue me.

  ***

  “This is Tony’s number, the private investigator looking for your ex. Don’t forget to use the peephole before answering the door. This is the code for the security system.” Walter rambled on, referencing a list he’d printed out, taking the occasional sip of coffee, which seemed to jog his memory to another detail.

  “Avoid going places where George might look for you. Call me if anything happens; my direct line at the office and my cell phone are right here.”

  In my defense, I did try not to laugh. He took another sip of his coffee and caught my barely suppressed chuckle. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said, looking down at the sheet. “You do this on the computer?”

  He nodded, and his neck flushed a bit. “I’m sort of a details guy-”

  I handed him his briefcase. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks, Walter.”

  He gave a sheepish smile and took the briefcase. “Okay. I’ll see you tonight, then? Unless you have other plans...”

  I shook my head and laughed. “My dance card was pretty clear, last time I checked.”

  He smiled. “Okay.” He leaned over, kissed me on the forehead, and left. I watched the door for a while after it had closed, then rubbed my forehead to get the tingling to go away. I rolled my eyes at myself. Tingling. Good God.

  I took a quick tour through the house. It was big for a single guy: three bedrooms, a living room, a dining room, kitchen, an office, and a finished basement. All of it immaculate. All of it sterile. I thought about stuffing a pair of my panties into the sofa just for fun but decided against it.

  Not on my first day, anyway.

  The only sign that anyone actually lived in the place was the mantel in the living room, loaded down with framed pictures. In one of them, a smiling woman who could have been Walter’s sister was acting as a human playground for three stair-step kids. In another, an older couple who could have been his parents smiled while dancing at what appeared to be an anniversary party. There wasn’t a single picture of Maggie, or of Walter for that matter. Hell, the others could have been the pictures that came with the frames. If the smiling woman hadn’t looked so much like Walter, I’d have entertained that possibility.

  I went into the guest room and fell back on the bed. I imagined Maggie selecting the quilt I was lying on, carefully straightening the sunflower baby picture until it was perfect. I bet it never occurred to her that someone like me would stay in that room someday.

  I sat up and looked around. Maggie was purple flowers and color-coordinated interior design. I was milk crates for bookcases and cheap, do-it-yourself furniture from Wal-Mart. Walter deserved a Maggie. What the hell kind of wiseass God would take her from him and send me instead?

  I stood up, suddenly feeling like an intruder in a place I didn’t belong. I had to get out. I was a little nervous about leaving, but as long as I didn’t return to my apartment or to Hastings Channel 8, I figured I’d be okay. George wouldn’t know to look for me anywhere else, and I’d taken Walter’s business card with me when I left the apartment, so there was nothing there linking me to him. Besides, George wasn’t a connect-the-dots kind of guy. If I wasn’t at my apartment when he came to kill me, he’d probably just drink all my booze, pee on my stuff, and be on his way.

  Ah. My Prince Charming.

  I grabbed my denim jacket off the coatrack and rifled through the pockets for my keys. I needed to be around people who didn’t know about George, who wouldn’t feel sorry for me, who would give me a healthy dose of shit and make me feel at home again.

  I needed Bones.

  ***

  “Ow! Dammit, Bones!” I turned around from where I was standing in line for coffee at Osgiliath’s, Tennessee’s largest used bookstore, to find Joe Bones standing behind me, his cane still raised from giving me a good thump between my shoulder blades. Bones is the oldest, crankiest, and blackest man in Tennessee and the biggest pain-in-the-ass client ever to darken the doors of Hastings Channel 8. Those were just some of the reasons why I loved him.

  “What you doing here, girl?” he croaked. Bones croaked everything. “And on a weekday, too. Don’t you have a damn job or something?”

  I threw him a look and moved up in the coffee line. “I’m between jobs now, Bones.”

  “You’re unemployed is what you are,” he said. “I called the station looking for you. They said you got yourself fired. Sheesh.”

  I grinned, and my tone turned to teasing. “Aw, Bones. You missed me.”

  “I didn’t miss nothin’.” He huffed and turned around, thumping the floor with his cane. “I’ll be in my office.”

  The line moved. I watched him stutter his way out of the coffee shop area, taking a left in the bookstore and making for the back. I smiled and stepped up to the counter.

  “I want a mocha grande,” I said to the kid taking orders. “Bones says it’s on the house.”

  ***

  “That Blaine Dowd is a damn fool,” Bones grunted when I finished my story about getting fired from Channel 8. No need to tell him any of the stuff after that; the story about Blaine had already gotten him worked up enough. “I’ve got half a mind to pull all my advertising from that station.”

  “Yeah, that’ll show ’em.” I sat back in the comfy chair opposite Bones’s desk and sipped my mocha. “When are you gonna give Shelley the big office, Bones? She does all the work around here, anyway”

  “I work,” he huffed.

  “You know, you could go straight to hell for making your granddaughter run the place from the women’s bathroom.”

  “I’m going to hell anyway, so might as well do it from a comfortable office.” Shelley had a fine office, just a tad smaller than Bones’s, but Bones and I had to maintain a level of antagonism in order to conduct a conversation, and arguing about his office typically did the trick.

  Bones raised a wiry white eyebrow at me. “You come here looking for a job?”

  “I’m taking some time off.”

  “You’re not gonna work?”

  I shrugged. “I came into some money.” Between my savings, Dowd’s check, and the garnished wages from George’s paychecks, I could afford to be a bum for another six months or so. But we both knew that wasn’t what Bones was talking about.

  He pointed one craggy finger at me. “That’s what’s wrong with you kids today. I’m eighty-seven years old, and I’ve never missed a day of work in my life.”

  I laughed. “Did you just actually say ‘you kids today’?”

  “You gonna sue that son of a bitch Dowd? You got yourself a good lawyer?”

  I shrugged and let a small smile escape. “Maybe.”

  He raised his other eyebrow. “You’re not fucking your lawyer, are you?”

  I slapped my hand down on the arms of my chair. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Bones. Can’t I just sit and have a cup of coffee in peace?”

  He sat back and watched me, his black eyes glittering. “You know Shelley’s knocked up again.”

  “She’s married, Bones. Married women don’t get knocked up. Women like me get knocked up.” I smiled. “Good for her, though. She here?”

  He gave a dismissive wave with one craggy hand. “She’s over at your old office, trying to get some commercials on with that skittish little blonde.”

  I nearly spit coffee through my nose. “Are you kidding me? They put you on Susie’s list? Did you make her cry over the phone, or did it take an in-person visit?”

  “Don’t change the subject. Shelley’s going on maternity leave in January, after the holidays.”

  He looked at me, his thin lips clamped shut. I raised an eyebrow. I knew what he was getting at, but damned if I was going to make it easy on him. Bones and I didn’t work that way. “Again, good for Shelley,” I said.

  Bones rolled his eyes and leaned forward. “If no one else in town wants you, you can help me manage the place while she’s gone, starting the f
irst week of January. It’s not good for an able-bodied girl to be lazing around all day like a damn dog.”

  “You think I’m able-bodied?” I camped up the act of wiping a tear from my eye. “Bones, you’re melting my heart.”

  He shrugged and sat back in his chair with a huff. I took a sip of my coffee.

  “Tell you what, Bones,” I said finally. “If I’m so desperate for work come January that I won’t mind working for the crankiest fucking guy in America, I’ll call you.”

  He chuckled and nodded. I sat back in the chair. It was good to be home.

  ***

  “Wanda. Yeah, hi. This is Jim McKibbey. I’m a vending machine sales rep. I don’t know why you wanted to know, but... Well, there you go.” Click.

  I leaned on Walter’s kitchen counter, his phone pressed against my face as I retrieved my home messages. There were twelve. One from my landlady, Mrs. Forini, who’d agreed to pick up my mail for me and keep an eye out for anything suspicious. One from Jennifer at the Hastings Daily Reporter, notifying me that the charges to my credit card had been reversed, which was good, because the other ten were from nutcases telling me who they were.

  “Hi—giggle, giggle—Is this, like, one of those radio show things? You know, like on a radio show? Am I on Q94?—giggle, giggle—Well, this is Alexandra. Call me!”

  Jesus. I half wished the phantom music would visit again. Infuriating as it was, it was better than listening to this. I sighed, tossing the pen I’d been using to take notes across the counter. I punched 7 to delete the message, then moved on to the next one.

  “Hi. I’m Elizabeth. I have to say, I’m kind of... intrigued why someone would put an ad like that in the paper. I mean, you must be getting a ton of nutcase calls.” She laughed. “Hell, you probably think I’m a nutcase. Ironically, I’m a therapist. Not that the two are mutually exclusive.” Heavy sigh. “This message is going down the shitter fast, isn’t it? Well, why not, right? I’m leaving a message with a stranger, and I’m supposed to be the sane one here. Well, fuck it, if you’re not selling anything, feel free to give me a call.” Click.